


Scared

by spiderfire



Category: Scared - The Tragically Hip
Genre: Apologies to C.S. Lewis and The Screwtape Letters, Apologies to Dante, Apologies to Supernatural, Gen, I hope this makes at least as much sense as the song, Jukebox Fanworks Exchange, Moral Lessons, which is a pretty low bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6957832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albert Gutmann had no idea what he was getting into when he decided to try to barter for Joe Belial's soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beedekka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beedekka/gifts).



Albert Gutmann picked his way along the stony trail that led through the woods. It was a pleasant summer day and while the wind stirred the leaves, his perfectly coifed sandy hair did not move. If ever there was a being that looked out of place in the wilderness, it was Gutmann. His black jeans were pressed. His button down shirt was crisp. His boots were so new they looked like they should creak, but they did not. 

The woods gave way to a clearing. In the clearing were two others. Gutmann stepped off the path and stood behind a tree to watch. 

The men in the clearing were dressed in rumpled, sweat-stained, dirt-colored shorts and shirts. One of the men was older with thinning grey hair and spectacles. He moved slowly with purpose. The other was younger, moving with the extravagant casual strength of a man in his prime. In the clearing with the men was a pile of duffle bags and a crate. The crate was marked with bright red warning labels suggesting that maybe it should be handled care. The younger man heaved the crate into place and the older man set a bag on top of it. The older man unzipped the duffle and pulled out a snow white suit. He handed the suit to the younger man and pulled out a second. The bright white glistened in the sun. Gutmann recognized the HAZMAT suits from the research he had done on his target. 

His target was Joe Belial, the older scientist. Joseph Belial never seemed to quite get the credit when the big discovery was made. Gutmann was thinking that he could convince the old man to change that trend. For a price. 

The two men stepped into the suits and pulled them up around their bodies. The younger man bent over the bag and pulled gloves out. Frowning, he stopped. 

"Damnit, Joe," he said, looking at the older man. 

"What?" Joe Belial asked. He was fastening the suit's velcro around his wrist.

"There are only three gloves in the bag." 

Joe Belial groaned. "You sure?" 

"Yup." The younger man held a pair of gloves out. "Here," he said. "I'll run back to the car. It probably fell out." 

Joe Belial shook his head and waved the gloves away. "You take them," he said. "I'll go. This is your experiment." 

"You sure?" the younger man asked. "It's nearly a mile back to the car." 

Joe Belial unzipped the his suit and let it fall to the ground. "Think nothing of it," he said as he stepped out. "I'll be back in a jiffy." 

"Should I start without you?" 

"By all means," Joe Belial said. "Maybe something interesting will be happening by the time I get back." 

The young man grinned and tugged the gloves on. "Want to bring back an extra pen with while you are at it? The one in the bag exploded." 

"Sure," Joe Belial said. He headed down the trail. 

Joe Belial passed less than twenty feet from Gutmann. Gutmann got a good look at his target. Gutmann had been studying Joe Belial for a while, but he had never seen him in the flesh. Online, on Facebook, and with the magic of his kind, Gutmann knew rather a lot about Joseph Belial. His thinning grey hair was tousled and unruly, as it was in every picture Gutmann had seen. Joe Belial wore wire frame glasses that sat like dinner plates on his face. He smiled easily when in the company of others, but once he was alone, he burned brightly in Gutmann's mind, full of anger and passion and disappointment in a lifetime of dreams unfulfilled. 

Silently now, Gutmann drifted behind Joe Belial. Five or six minutes from the clearing, when they were alone, he struck. 

~#~

Gutmann was a lot stronger than he looked. He walked through the door of the hunter's cabin and dropped Joe Belial from the fireman's carry onto the cot in the corner. The springs in the cot squealed in protest. Next to the cot was a dusty, ancient chair that leaned precariously to the side. 

Gutmann knew that the older man would be out for a few minutes more before the enchantment wore off. He turned aside and prepared for the negotiation. A tie appeared around his neck. Red, of course. He tightened it, his long fingers precisely manipulating the knot. He put one hand to the other wrist and fastened a gold cuff link through the sleeve. He repeated the gesture on the other hand. When he was ready, the suit's jacket was draped on the chair. The chair was now shiny and brown, out of place in this dirty, forgotten cabin. Standing straight, he smoothed his lapels and inspected his image in the reflection from the window. Smiling to himself, showing teeth, he liked what he saw. Powerful. Confident. A successful broker. 

He reviewed his talking points in his head. _Joe_ , he would say. _What is it like? An entire career as the research assistant? Always missing out on the big discovery. Don't you want it to be you, Joe? Just once? I can help you._

Behind his back, he heard a noise. He turned around.

~#~

Joe Belial was sitting on the cot rubbing the side of his head. "What?" the older man started to ask, but when he caught sight of Gutmann he stopped. A broad smile came across his face. 

Albert Gutmann opened his mouth ready to start laying it on, when he saw the target's smile. He froze. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The enchantment should not have worn off like that, all of a sudden. It should have taken nearly an hour while Gutmann could work the dream-state.

Joe Belial was wide awake watching him with alert eyes through giant spectacles. 

Gutmann's stomach twisted. This was not right. He did the only thing he could think of. He stepped forward, holding a hand out to touch Belial's face. "Sleep," he commanded. The word, said in the spell-speech of his kind, slithered off his tongue, two pronged, ready to wrap around the target and pull him from consciousness. 

Belial pushed his hand away. "I don't think so," he said pleasantly. 

Gutmann backpedalled away from the target, tripping over his own feet until he stopped abruptly, his back against the far wall. 

Belial leaned on his hands his legs splayed out in front of him as he watched Gutmann. The skin around his eyes crinkled with amusement. 

"Careful," Belial commented. 

Gutmann pushed off the wall and he tried to get his feet underneath himself. This was intolerable. 

"So," Belial said conversationally. "What deal were you going to offer?" 

"Deal?" Gutmann squeaked. 

"Surely you were going to offer something?"

"Who...what are you?" Gutmann asked. 

"I'm guessing fame," Belial said. "Poor Joe Belial, always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Or is it lust? A lucky love life after a life of bachelorhood?"

Gutmann realized his mouth was hanging open. He shut it, his teeth coming together with a click. 

"Perhaps you are offering revenge for all the slights? Or is it just money?" The older man's smile widened. "Nothing like a bit of greed to turn them." 

Gutmann realized his mistake. Joe Belial was not the man he had taken him for. Not at all. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking. 

"Nothing?" Belial asked. "Pity." He stood and ran his hand through his hair. Gutmann realized that his former target was a lot taller than he remembered. "I have work to do," Belial said. 

Gutmann did not know what he was dealing with, but that something like Belial would do menial work for a human, made him angry. "Fetching?" he sputtered. "Gloves?"

Belial smiled again. His glasses were crooked and his hair was sticking up in all directions. The smile should have been charming, but Gutmann's insides seized. His stomach felt like a rock. His knees threatened to give way. "Fetching," Belial agreed. "I suggest that you get out of my way." 

That was out of the question. Gutmann suddenly realized that he would have to report his failure. Swallowing, he glared at the older man. "No," he said, drawing the word from some font of strength he did not know he had. 

Belial's smile hardened. He studied Gutmann and Gutmann met his gaze for a full five seconds before he looked away. "Pitiful," Belial said, raising his hand to snap his fingers. 

Gutmann panicked. He had seen his Master make that gesture more than once when new ones did not please him. A snap and they were gone. Disintegrated back into the universe. "Wait!" he croaked. 

"Why?" Belial said. 

"Please," Gutmann begged. "I'll do anything." 

Belial laughed. "Are you begging? Pride must not be your thing." 

Pride was absolutely his thing. 

"What could _you_ do for _me_? You are a pathetic. Barely even _isham_." Belial said. 

Gutmann squared his shoulders, remembering that day when he was human. There had been a meeting when the partners had been consulting on his fate. While they had kicked him out of the room to talk in private, he had met his Master for the first time. Such an easy trade. Things had gone well after that. The partners had loved the deal. He had money and all the things money could buy. He was coiffed, respected, noticed. Lucifer could have had anyone, but he had selected Gutmann. "Lucifer picked me," Gutmann said. "I command the third unit of fourth circle." 

Belial looked back at Gutmann, "Do you now? You're Luci's get?"

"Lucifer," Gutmann corrected stiffly. 

Belial sat back down on the bed and leaned back on his hands. "The third unit of the fourth circle?" 

Gutmann nodded his head. It was a position of prestige. No one had commanded a unit of the fourth circle so soon after their descension. 

"Okay," Belial abruptly agreed. 

"Okay?" Gutmann asked, incredulous. 

"Scare me," Belial said. 

Gutmann stared at Belial, 

"What?" Belial said, lifting his fingers to snap. "That too hard for you? Surely you can manage to frighten an old man." 

"Old man?" Gutmann stuttered. 

"Old man," Belial agreed. "So, can you do it? Can you make me scared?"

Gutmann turned aside. Scared? He was terrified. He had once gone before the partners in his firm and pitched an investment so bold, so outrageous that he had been afraid they would fire him on the spot. A floundering little restaurant that sold coffee and not much else. He had been twenty-four, with college debts and three roommates sharing a microscopic midtown apartment. He had been so sure of this company until he walked in the door, but then it all went wrong. His slides were out of order. He stumbled on the managing partner's name. He had been shaking so badly the papers rattled in his hands. 

Joe Belial was hardly an old man. What had he gotten into? This was not a creature who would succumb to parlor tricks. How could he, Albert Gutmann, scare him? 

The same way he sold twelve millionaires on a restaurant chain that only made coffee. He could do this, he told himself. Taking a deep breath, Gutmann turned to Belial and squared his shoulders. He smiled with that cocky smile he had once practiced in front of the mirror. "I can make you scared, if you want me to," he said. 

"You have to really scare me," Belial replied, leaning forward. "Not just startle me." 

_I'm not prepared_ , Gutmann thought to himself. "If you want me to," he said as he stepped forward and held out his hand. Lightly, almost a caress, he laid it on Belial's face, murmuring a word in the spell-speech. This time Belial allowed it. The old man closed his eyes and Gutmann led him inside. 

~#~

"Sgt. Josef! Get over here!" Josef was old for a sergeant, and unusual for a Nazi, he wore giant glasses. Grey hair stuck out from the rim of his cap and his uniform always seemed rumpled. 

Josef made his way towards Cpl. Albert. Albert was a pain in the ass. His buttons and shoes were always spit shined. His trousers were pressed to a knife-edge creese. 

It was a quiet night. It had been a bloody day, angry day. The Red Army and most of the citizens of the city had withdrawn into the forests to the east to lick their wounds. In the calm, Josef's platoon had been given the go ahead. The Kursk museum was home to nearly a million works - everything from the great European masters to collections of the exotic trinkets from the Southern continents. The rest of their platoon waited in trucks to carry the loot back behind the front lines, back to the Fatherland, where it would be catalogued with the rest. 

Albert had pulled open the door to the museum. It had been left unlocked. He shone his torch into the cavernous space. Josef looked in. 

The walls had light patches, rectangles where paintings used to be. The cases were standing open, empty. 

"Will you look at that?" Josef said pulling his own torch from its holster and stepping into the gallery. 

"But sir!" Albert protested.

Josef swung his flashlight around. He wondered how they had pulled this off. Had they given every citizen something to carry? In the midst of a city-wide retreat? The organization alone. "Remarkable," he said. 

"Our orders!" Albert said. 

"Our orders, Corporal, were to bring back the art that was here." He stepped around a corner into another empty room. "Clearly, that will be an easier task than we thought."

~#~

"Nazis!" Belial exclaimed with delight as he opened his eyes. 

"You were not scared," Gutmann observed as he dropped his hand from Belial's face and turned away. The room had the unnatural stillness of a space outside of time. Gutmann had seen this sort of magic before. Out the window the leaves on the trees were frozen, light sides flipped over in the wind. A hawk hung in the air. It was well beyond Gutmann's ken. Belial's work, he assumed. 

Belial pulled his feet up on the bed and sat cross-legged. "There is not much about Nazis that will scare me," Belial said. "Certainly not being outsmarted by the Russians. Where did you even come up with that?" 

"I've met the real Corporal Albert." 

Belial grinned. "Have you now? Is he Luci's get too?"

Gutman's jaw tightened. He had been, until his master had tired of him. "Aren't you afraid, calling him that?"

Belial leaned back against the wall and did not respond. 

"Answer me," Gutmann demanded. 

"You think in terms of transactions," Belial said. 

"What?"

"That scene was frightening to you because they had orders to bring something back and they could not do it. They could not complete their transaction." 

"What?" Gutmann said again. 

"I am paying you," Belial said. "To scare me." 

"You are?" 

"I am. The coin is your life. Scare me and I pay you with your life." 

"But," Gutmann protested. 

"You are costing me, right now. It'd be cheaper for me to just kill you. I am paying you. To scare me." 

"Do I get to try again?" Gutmann asked. 

"I'll give you...two more tries. Then I have to get back to work." Belial gestured at the window, "Tony's waiting for me, up at the test site." 

"Tony?" 

Belial pulled off his glasses and polished them. "Tony Lepman. My current protege." 

Gutmann glanced out the window. He found himself staring at the inverted leaves. Were all the famous scientists that Belial had been affiliated with his proteges? Perhaps the shadows is where Belial wanted to be. Huh, maybe he could use that. He stepped forward with his hand outstretched. Belial grabbed it before Gutmann put it on his face. "You need to remember something." 

"What?" Gutmann asked, meeting Belial's eyes. 

"Fear is not transactional. Fear is personal. You can not buy and sell fear, not real fear." Belial guided Gutmann's hand to his cheek. "Try again." 

~#~

Joseph bent over the computer screen, staring at the columns of numbers on the spreadsheet. He pulled off his oversized glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put the glasses back on. There was a pattern here, he was sure of it. He moved the mouse around. No, that formula was right. As was the next one. Where was the problem? Why couldn't he find it? 

He had been an analyst at Lantex Pharma for nearly three years. It was a good job. He liked the people he worked with. The job was interesting and not too hard. It felt good. He had been a part of the team that had released the drug Progo about a year ago. Now thousands of people had a better life, a life with less pain, because they took the drug. 

However, almost immediately after Progo was released, there were stories of complications. Weird things. Bleeding disorders and brain cancer. After each report, there had been an investigation. Lantex found nothing. There was always an explanation - a strange genetic disorder, or complications with other medications. Then it got weird. The stories kept coming, but not one analyst was assigned to the case. He began to wonder if someone was covering it up. A week ago, he had used his corporate access to pull all of the records and, when he could sneak time from other projects, he peaked at the data. There must be something in this mess. He highlighted several columns and tried plotting them as a graph. 

Footsteps interrupted his train of thought. It was late and he was the only one left in the analytics group. Irritably he looked up. It was Albert. Albert was the prissy new guy over in finance. Joseph figured they must pay the finance guys really well because, Albert always looked like he had just stepped out of an Abercrombie catalog. Hastily he minimized his window.

"What are you still doing here?" Albert asked. 

"Trying to finish up some paperwork," Joseph replied. 

Albert came to a stop in the cube entrance and peered at Joseph's screen. "Looks like you are done," he said. 

"Uh, yeah," Joseph said. "Just about." 

"Got plans for the weekend?" 

"No," Joseph said. His computer beeped and a graph flashed up. He spun around in his chair to minimize it. Albert said, "What's that?" 

"Uh," Joseph said. 

"Hey, is that the Progo data?" 

"Uh. Yeah." 

"What're you looking for?" 

"I don't know," Joseph replied, suddenly changing his tact from denial to rolling with it. "Something. Some correlation. But as you can see," Joseph waved his hand at the screen of scattered dots. "I got bupkis." 

Albert peered at the screen. "How old are the people who have the..." 

"Age?" Joseph asked, suddenly realizing that was a correlation he had not tried. He cleared the graph from the screen, and, fingers rattling on the screen, he made another graph. "Will you look at that...." He said. 

The data showed clear patterns. Blood disorders appeared in 50-53 year olds. Cancer in 39-42 year olds. Organ failure in 66-68 year olds. "Have you ever seen anything like that?" 

"Nope." 

"Those windows are so narrow..." Joseph said. "No one is going to..." 

"If it's what the data shows," said Albert. 

"It's got to be a coincidence," said Joseph. "There is nothing that gives such narrow windows in adults." 

"If you say so," Albert said. 

"It's got to be..." Joseph said, his voice fading out. He was staring at the data. The pattern was so striking. If this data was right..."

Albert said, "Well, talk to you later." 

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Joseph replied, unable to tear his eyes off the screen. 

~#~

Gutmann watched as Belial sat, his eyes closed. He wondered if he had succeeded. He thought he had made it more personal, this time, getting at the science thing that Belial seemed so enamored with. Failure, he thought, was a great fear. He really liked his little twist - making him suspicious and then offering an answer that was probably false, but seemed really promising. How much of a fear must that be for scientists? The fear of screwing up, of staking their names, their careers, on something that is wrong. Or, for a whistle blower. The fear of loosing his job. He is not quite sure what button he pushed but he hoped he pushed one at him. 

Then, staring at the man, he suddenly felt his pride at his clever little ruse evaporate. Who was he kidding? Belial was almost certainly one of the First Rank, just as Lucifer was. Such petty machinations must surely be below them. Letting out a breath that he did not need, he collapsed back into the chair and stared angrily at Belial. Why was he doing this? Belial should have just killed him and been done with it. Belial was going to kill him in the end. What could he, commander of the third unit of the fourth circle, come up with that would possibly frighten him? It was stupid, all of it. 

Belial opened his eyes, "Not bad," he said. 

Hope surged in Gutmann. Could it be... "You mean...did I ..." 

Belial laughed. "Hardly." Pushing himself off the bed, he stood, clasped his hands behind his back and arched it. Gutmann pedaled backwards, knocking over the chair. Belial looked at him with a bemused smile on his face. "Easy," he said. Gutmann could hear the cracks as Belial's joints popped. "I just want to stretch. I like this suit," Belial said, referring to the human body he was possessing. "But his bones creak." 

Belial sat back down on the edge of the cot. "Let me give you some feedback, kid." 

"Why are you doing this?" Gutmann demanded. The words just burst from his mouth and when he finished, his jaw was gaping. How could he have said that? He winced, expecting to be vaporized. 

But it didn't happen. "You were all over the place," Belial said. "Fear of failure. Fear of discovery. Fear of success. You just kept dumping it on. It was too much, with no focus." 

Gutman was so hot. He loosened his tie and took a step forward, back towards the chair. He was shaking. He put his hands on the back of the chair to steady them.

"What are you feeling right now?" Belial asked. 

There was no point in not admitting it. "I am terrified," he said. 

"Why? What are you afraid of?" 

Gutmann laughed in a nervous explosion. "You have got to be kidding," he said. 

"Tell me." 

"You?" 

"Why me? I mean, you kidnapped me. Well, Joe Belial. You kidnapped Joe. Were you afraid of me then?" 

"No." 

"What changed?" 

"You are not Joe Belial." 

Belial grinned, hands on his knees. "Of course I am. I've been Joe Belial for years. And do you know who Joe Belial is?" 

"A lab assistant." 

"Yes," Belail replied with delight. "A lab assistant. And who do I assist?" 

"Uh. Scientists." 

"Creators," Belial amended. "Those humans who carry on Father's work. 

Gutmann frowned, remembering Lucifer as expounding. Demons of the first rank never had a human life. They had been angels before they had been cast out. 

"Heim, Harlow, Milgrim, Johnson, Wirths, Oppenheimer, Taliaferro Clark, Ianovov," Belial said. "Some of my recent achievements."

The names flashed through Gutmann's mind in the way that things did for his kind and he knew who they were. Heim and Wirths ran the division of Nazi scientists who experimented on prisoners. Clark was the driving force behind the Tuskagee airman study. Harry Harlow and Stanley Milgrim and Wendell Johnson were psychologists. Oppenheimer, of course, was led the development of the bomb. Ianovov experimented with hybridizing humans and, although he died, his work was still going on. Gutmann could see the near future success of the program - the birth of a stupid, strong, part human, part chimp creature.

"I'm still working on that last one," Belial commented. "Sometimes creation is a slow process." 

"Why are you telling me this?" 

"Because, I want you to think about the terror you feel now. You aren't afraid of Joe Belial the lab assistant. What are you afraid of?" 

"You." 

"But why?" 

Gutmann thought back to the moment. He had touched Belial's face and uttered the command to sleep. And it had not worked. 

"That's the moment," Belial said, staring at his face. "What happened?" 

"The spell did not work." 

"What did that mean?" 

"I lost control." 

"Bing bing bing! Give the baby demon a star!" 

Gutmann looked out the window at the frozen trees and thought about that. Control. Had that been his fear all along? As a human he had had to fight for every last thing. He liked his ducks in a row. He liked his shoes shined and his daily planner in order. When things had spiraled out of control, that is when Lucifer had offered a hand and he accepted.

"Why are you doing this?" Gutmann asked again

"Because I can," Belial replied. "Because you can be so much more than...whatever it is you are now." 

"How does this help me?" Gutmann asked. "I get it. What scares me is being out of control. Being at someone else's mercy. But that's not what scares you. Is it?" 

"And," Belial added. "It's fun. Give it one more shot, kid. Or else," he raised his hand, fingers ready to snap. 

"Please," Gutmann begged. "Give me a hint." 

"I already did. Now, let's go." 

Gutmann's mind raced. What was he afraid of? Nothing so obvious as control, or any of the science experiments. But then Gutmann remembered a painting he had seen once: a painting of God, casting those who dare rebel against Him from Heaven. The angels, as they fell, had been portrayed with such terror on their faces. 

Could it be so simple? Inhaling deeply, he laid his hand on Belial's cheek. 

~#~

The gangway was rickety. The struts had been fractured early in the battle and in places it hung precariously from two or three bolts. Sergeant Joe walked along it, not noticing the way it swayed underfoot. A muffled explosion jolted the gangway and he was thrown from his feet, unceremoniously dumped on his ass. He could feel the change in the ship's balance almost immediately. She was going down. 

The ship had performed admirably, a singular accomplishment. Dozens of different branches of research had come together - from indoctrination of the soldiers, to primary research in high energy materials. The ship was a crowning achievement to a decade of work. It was a moment of creation to be proud of. Unfortunately, the only one whose approval mattered to him would not notice his work.

The location where the ship's final moments would occur before it sank once and for all beneath the waves could not have been more fortuitous. The tabernacle of St. Luke had been erected on the headland that overlooked the bay. St. Luke, patron saint of artists and creators, had once stood on the shore and blessed the breathtaking beauty of the blue-green sea. In her demise as a leaking, rotting carcass on the bay's floor, the destroyer would continue its work of another kind of creation.

Sgt. Joe pulled open the bulkhead door and climbed out on deck and into the daylight. The sky was clear blue and it was hot. On the shore, civilians gathered. They were shouting and making a ruckus, but the wind carried their voices away. The ship shuddered again as one of the charges went off late. Her back was broken and she was taking on water at a rate faster than the pumps could empty it. That rate was accelerating. There was not much time left. 

For all that the ship was lost, they had been victorious. The people they defended were exuberant in victory and they waded out into the water. The kids splashed and dove like fish, stroking out toward the boat, hoping for sweets to be tossed from the deck. Each time they surfaced, they came up streaked with the shimmering oils that leaked from gashes in the hull. 

Resting his hands on the railing, he looked up at the tiny, ancient church and felt a smug satisfaction. Luke had always annoyed him. Why should a fish grubber like Luke, a jonny-come-lately be so favored when Belial had been doing God's work since the Garden? 

A soldier came up and stood next to him at the rail. He glanced at the man. The other soldier wore the uniform of a chaplain. 

"Father," he said politely. 

"It's good to see land again," the chaplain said. "Wasn't so sure it was going to happen during the battle." 

"We're not on shore yet," he said. 

"Is she really going to sink? Here, in sight of land?" 

Remembering the way his hands had moved, competent and fast as he had set the charges, he nodded. "Yes sir," he said. 

The chaplain stared at the people, unclean in the oil-capped water. "But what of the ship? 

"She will rot. In a century perhaps, she will have been consumed by the sea." 

The chaplain stared at iridescent sheen that flowed from the boat in all directions. The birds that had gathered to feed in the rich shallows, perched on rocks, trying to preen the oil from their feathers. "But," the chaplain said, glancing up at the tabernacle overhead. "What of the bay?" 

He shrugged and glanced down at the deck. Sailors rushed around, dropping lifeboats to the sea. "You should go, father," he said to the chaplain. 

The chaplain shook his head. "No, wait. What of the bay?" he said. "This is sacred land. The boat will despoil it." 

"Nothing's forever," he replied. "Come on, Father. You really should go. They are launching the boats." 

"No," the chaplain said again, gripping the rail. Joe found himself staring at the chaplain's hands. They seemed to be glowing. "No, this can not be." 

Joe rubbed his eyes. No, the chaplain's hands were definitely glowing and getting brighter as he watched. Tearing his eyes away, he looked up. The whole man was glowing with a wholesome warm light, a light he had not seen in an age. The last time he had seen it, it had been shining on his back as he fell and fell and fell, his shadow cutting a hole in its glorious radiance. He stumbled back a few steps, tripping over his own feet. "Who...what..." 

The chaplain turned away from the rail and faced him. He was now so bright, Joe had a hard time looking at him. "Belair," the chaplain who wasn't a chaplain at all, said to him. "You can't run from me." 

He could try. He backed up again, his back coming up hard against the wall. The figure was shining so brightly now, the skin on his cheeks stung and bubbled. 

"I gave you the gift to inspire men, and instead you use it for this?" 

The brightness increased by a thousandfold, and then there was darkness.

~#~

In a blaze of the explosion, Gutmann was flung across the cabin, arms and legs flailing. He crashed into the far wall. He slid down and landed in an undignified heap on the filthy floor. Groaning, he clambered to hands and knees. Nothing seemed to be broken . He looked at his hands against the floor. They were smudged black. His hands led him to his arms. The cuffs of his fine shirt was stained and his dark suit jacket was covered in dust. He tried to brush the dirt from the sleeve of his coat jacket, only to realize that he was making it worse. Staring at the mess, he realized that he was still here. He had not been destroyed. 

Across the room he heard a noise. He looked up. Seeing Joe Belial sitting on the cot, blinking wide eyed through the oversized glasses, he remembered what was going on. Belial's skin was pale and his hand was shaking as he raised it to his hair and ran it through the mop of curls. "Okay," Belail said, his voice coming out breathy, "You made me scared."

Gutmann scrambled to his feet. "I did?" 

"You did what you set out to do. Very perceptive." Belial stood. The mattress spring squealed as the weight was removed. "I was not prepared for that, but you had me going there for a minute." 

Belial walked across the room towards the door. "Wait," Gutmann said. "Is that it? I was not sure I was getting through, but I did? Can you..." 

Belial put his hand on the door knob. Outside, the trees whose leaves had been frozen in the breeze abruptly started to flutter. The wind rattled the roof of the cabin. "I've got to go," Belial said. "Pleasure doing business with you." 

"But," Gutmann protested. 

Belial pulled open the door. Wind rushed in, stirring up the dust. Abruptly Gutmann found himself coughing and choking. When he had recovered Belial was gone. 

Taking a breath, he straightened his shoulders. With his hand, he flicked the dirt off his coat. This time it came off, leaving behind a pristine, crisply pressed jacket. Smiling to himself, he stepped out into the forest and left the cabin behind.


End file.
